


One Day in the Life of Yachi Hitoka, Witch Apprentice

by ShadowThief78



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Birthday, Fluff, Gen, Mythical Beings and Creatures, One-Shot, light hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowThief78/pseuds/ShadowThief78
Summary: Hitoka Yachi is, on the outside, a typical Japanese college student and intern. Every day, she wakes up, has a cup of tea and some breakfast, and bikes from her shared apartment to campus to attend classes.Only she wakes up about noon, has a flying bike, and also deals in magical potions and remedies from 6pm to midnight. (God, that makes her sound like a drug dealer.) Good thing she’s got a mentor and a wall full of spellbooks to help.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Shimizu Kiyoko & Yachi Hitoka
Kudos: 5
Collections: Haikyuu!! Urban Fantasy Bang





	One Day in the Life of Yachi Hitoka, Witch Apprentice

Bright sun slants through the thin white curtains and onto her face. It’s too hot and waking her up too fast - it’s not time to wake up yet and she always relishes the brief period of fuzzy limbo when her body is awake but her brain is not. Half the blankets are a fabric waterfall cascading to the floor, kicked off in her sleep, and the fan on the bedside table is on and blowing her hair into her face. 

She gives up on sleeping anymore with not a small amount of regret, turns over and yawns, and heaves her sweaty self off the mattress. The apartment above the shop is old and doesn’t have a reliable AC system or insulation, unlike the ground floor.

“Oof-” She steps, catching her toe and almost stumbles, over her piles of textbooks and sheets of notes. Frustrated, she flicks them back onto the shelves with a lazy motion of her index finger. They fly and land stacked quite tidily near a jar of glass marbles - she’s getting better with nonverbal magic. 

Not too long ago, she would end up tearing the words off any piece of paper she tried to levitate, a feat of fantastic confusion only matched by the fact that the ink would stick to the nearest hard surface and refuse to come out. They went through quite a few coats of paint before she managed to graduate to creating a tornado of papers, which was less messy but much more prone to creating paper cuts.

The clattering of the metal drain covers separating the pavement from the road as a bicycle rides over them reminds her to shut the window and pull the shades tightly shut. It’s quieter like that, with the early morning bustle of the city dampened, but also even stiller than before. Well, at least the smell of exhaust hasn’t taken hold yet.

After making her bed, she changes into suitably summery clothing and ambles down the stairs. It’s a spiral staircase with a wide, smooth banister perfect for sliding down when it’s not so hot and humid and a series of alcoves, each housing their collection of clutter. The first two are Kiyoko’s personal storage, locked shut and crammed with expensive, rare, or dangerous ingredients for potions and balms. She’s never asked what the fourth one is.

The third has her collection of spellbooks, potion recipes, and favorite issues of magazines like Witching Quarterly, a seasonal spell-centered publication that came out every first and third quarters of the moon (not to be confused with Witches’ Weekly, that sketchy gossip tabloid); and the last - the fifth - the one just after the staircase meets ground - has yet another locked door hiding rows of shelves filled with the more expensive goods that the shop sells. The ingredients to some are kept in there too, but most supplies lie in the closet just behind the shop. It’s too big to be called a cabinet and too small to be a room of its own, tacked on like an afterthought or poorly planned result of wall shuffling.

She ignores the door to the front - to the shop, which is closed at this hour - and heads into the kitchen in the back in search of some cold air. The fridge holds a cold pitcher of genmaicha, she knows, and there’s ice in the freezer. Kiyoko walks in when she’s halfway done with breakfast, a cold sandwich with leftover egg (the stove would heat up the air even more) and tomatoes. “Good morning, Yachi.”

“Good morning, Kiyoko,” She says, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of her eyes and blinking. She really shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night (or does that count as early this morning?), but it was an eclipse night and the watery moonlight collected on some eclipse nights makes better witchwater than the regular stuff - and they really did need more for the plants. Some of the lavender isn’t doing too well, but hopefully it’ll spruce up when the heatwave leaves.

(It’s her job to tend to four of the six planters on the sides of the roof, filled with herbs, vegetables, and other medicinal plants currently drooping in the heat. She’ll give them all a decent spray of water when the sun sets so they don’t steam in the moisture and noon sun.)

And, apparently, it also tastes like maple sap (she’s never had maple sap before). Which is supposed to taste like maple syrup’s puny cousin who also sufferers from regular bouts of nervousness and fainting. And, anyway, it didn’t taste like much. Maybe a bit like cold and trees - moonlight is always shockingly icy, no matter where it was collected or stored - but nothing much more. 

She has, however, eaten maple syrup. More than once. There’s a quiet little cafe by the campus that serves the best Belgian waffles and caprese paninis in the city, so she goes there sometimes to study.

After finishing her breakfast and saying goodbye to Kiyoko, she climbs up the stairs again - ugh, it’s unbelievably stuffy compared to downstairs. The door to the roof is at the very end of a narrow corridor lined with floral wallpaper that doesn’t quite fit, too big in some places and too small in others. It’s got squeaky floorboards that also lead to the bathroom, but to get through to the roof you have to wiggle the padlock open, climb a staircase so steep it’s more like a wooden ladder, and heave yourself up onto sun-baked concrete. At least it’s slightly cooler up here, there’s a nice breeze without the buildings blocking it too much.

Yachi tosses her bookbag in front of her, then crawls through, and lowers the heavy trapdoor shut, listening carefully to hear the click of the lock. Saeko’s motorcycle is there, covered by a tarp and half disassembled, from the last time she was tinkering with the flight spells on it. The hose is coiled neatly on it’s rack, the planters lining the far side and full of drooping greenery and dry dirt.

“Sorry!” She says. “You can have some water soon, I promise!” Yachi unlocks the shed and pulls out her bike - it’s a light blue with a wicker basket in the front and a bell, and a rack with elastic for her to attach her bag to behind the seat. With a flick of her fingers, the invisibility turns on and she pedals hard to get into the air, standing on the pedals, then sits back to enjoy the view from the air. Her university isn’t too far away and it’s got a convenient clump of trees where she can land unnoticed except for a stray squirrel or two.

It’s one of those days where the weather can’t seem to make up its mind and keeps changing from sunny to overcast at the drop of a hat. Dark clouds have just rolled in and are building on the eastern horizon. The breeze carries the thick, rich scent of rain instead of the cool breeze from earlier, and the humidity feels stifling. She’s glad to get inside the cool, air-conditioned building and even more grateful that the uni’s bike racks are under a large overhang. She does have a few deliveries to make while on campus, and most of them are very delicate.

She’s in the middle of getting ready for her first lecture when Kageyama slips in next to her, holding an invisibility charm and wearing-

“What are you doing, Kageyama?” She asks. He’s in a “HOLLYWOOD” hoodie and baseball cap pulled down so far his sunglasses are sliding down over his nose and getting a white layer of condensation on them from his exhales. Hinata, looking like a little bird with a scrap of orange hair, pops out of his hood.

“He’s disguised! He even made me look like this,” he harrumphs, looking as annoyed as a tiny crow tengu familiar can. “It’s a stupid disguise.”

“Ah,” She says. “But, Kageyama-san. . . since we’re on campus, isn’t it better to wear regular clothing?” She smiles.

He stares at her, shocked, and looks for all the world like someone who has just been smacked on the forehead with a wet octopus tentacle. Hinata squawks a laugh: “See? I knew you looked weird, ya flat-haired idiot!” He giggles some more and turns a somersault in the air, beating his wings furiously to stay aloft. She still hasn’t figured out how he does, but her current theory is that he’s like a bumblebee.

“Shut up, scrub!” Kageyama snatches the fluttering bird out of the air and stuffs him in the hoodie’s pocket. Hinata yelps indignantly: “My feathers are all messed up now! Thanks a lot.”

Yachi glances around at the students trickling into the large auditorium. There’s still twenty minutes until class starts, so most are napping or reviewing notes with headphones in. Nobody seems to have noticed them, confirming her suspicion that Kageyama’s charm was also for cancelling noise.

Hinata scrambles out of Kageyama’s pocket and onto the space on bench between the two of them, turning human with a puff of downy orange feathers. “Don’t do that, Bakageyama-”

“What did you order today?” She asks, pulling out the notebook and running her finger down the list to distract them from arguing. Her list for today is longer than usual.

Akaashi Keiji: 3 good luck omamori (Mail package)  
Iwaizumi Hajime: 3 jars burn cream, 1 flame-resistant cape (Leave at front gate)  
Oikawa Tooru: 4 packages tea (custom chamomile-ginger-ginseng blend), 1 silver decanter (Leave at front gate)  
Ushijima Wakatoshi: 2 containers sacred salt (Mail package)  
Kuroo Tetsurou: 4 doses seeing spirits potion, 1 silver teaspoon, 1 roll “mortals stay away” sticker-charms (leave at front gate)  
Kozume Kenma: 15 sticks lavender incense, 6 salt-iron candles, 5 ink sticks, 1 calligraphy brush (nekoma hair), 1 sachet dried cherry blossom petals (Leave at front gate of campus)  
Kageyama Tobio: 6 ink sticks, 3 jars witchwater, 2 good luck omamori, 1 invisibility-silence charm (In person pick-up)  
Fukutachi Kenji: Appointment at shop, 6pm. 

She opens her bag, reaches into the secret pocket and squints. “Ink, water. . .” She mutters and she piles the supplies on the table in front of her. “Okay, that’s everything.” She crosses the entry out and takes the envelope Kageyama hands to her. Inside is a stack of bills and another list of supplies for next time.

“Ooh, what’s this?” Hinata grabs the glass jar holding the witchwater and unscrews the silver lid. He sniffs it twice then raises it to his mouth to take a sip.

“No!” Kageyama grabs it back, sloshing water over the side of the jar and onto the floor. It hisses and steams almost instantly, evaporating to nothing. “You idiot! Why’d you do that? I need this!”

Hinata dodges the smack thrown his way and leaps over the table to cower behind Yachi. “He didn’t know!” She pleads, holding her hands up. “It’s okay, don’t worry! We can replace that!”

Kageyama scowls, shooting Hianta one last dirty look before reluctantly sitting back down and fishing out a key on a thin chain from under his shirt. Hinata peeks over her shoulder and whispers, “What’s that stuff for, anyways?”

“Witchwater?” She racks her brain. “Umm, nothing in particular. You can use it for the basis of lots of spells and potions and stuff, since it’s good at holding magic, and doesn’t really do much on its own. Some people who like risky spells don’t like it, because it smooths the magic out and tones it down. Some people say that if you drink it it’ll heal you faster, because it regulates something? Some fortune tellers use it to scry the future. I think that’s it.” She frowns. “Oh, and it works as a cleansing thing. Something about sensing misfortune, I think?”

“Hmm.” Hinata’s eyes drift over to the unattended goods are. “What does it taste like?” 

“Just-” She falters, shrugs. “You know.” It’s one of those things that you can identify but can’t describe. “Cold. Have you had any? Has Kageyama made his own?”

Hinata shakes his head no to both questions. “That’s why I wanted to try it. Kageyama can’t cook, he tried to make a flight potion once and we had to get a new stove.” He leans in and cups a hand around her ear “Don’t tell him I said this, but he can’t even make a sandwich right. I saw him put salt in his tea once.”

“Oh.” She thinks. “Well, it’s just moonlight, spring water or rainwater, and sometimes flavoring. You know. Sometime, I can teach you how to make it.”

“Really?” Hinata poofs back into a bird. “You’re the best, Yacchan!” He flaps a little more before Kageyama grabs him. 

“Ah, we can do that tonight if you want,” She says, waving at Kageyama’s retreating back. “Bye!”

Hinata chirps happily at her before they both step out of the hall. None of her mortal classmates so much as bat an eyelid.

.

Her next two classes pass in the blink of an eye, a blur of slides and assignments. She makes a quick stop at the library, a stern building of clear glass and concrete mortar, to pick up a book she reserved, before stopping by the gate of the campus. It couldn’t be more different than the sleek, modern structure she just left.

The front gate to the campus is a staircase made of heavy slabs of gray stone, worn into soft curves by the years of foot traffic. It was the beginnings of an expensive house for a rich noble who lost his wealth in a fire, back when Japan was still a collection of warring states, then sold off to various buyers, changing hands frequently, before the university that still resides there was established and built. The original buildings - or what was left of the unfinished construction - have been replaced, obviously, but the stone stairs and matching statues of foxes remain.

The secret container for magic supplies is inside a decorative mossy boulder that’s half as high and thrice as wide as she is. She runs her fingertips over rough stone, feeling for the carved sigil under the plant life, then gathering and sending a pulse of magic through her. The rock shivers, growing briefly warm, then the hinged door swings open with a creak that rivals any bullfrog’s.

Her four packages fit on top of each other with a slight squeeze sideways and plenty of headroom, butcher paper-wrapped bundles standing neatly against one another. She fishes a handful of business cards out and leaves them in a stack inside the opening - nobody knows where your next client comes from. There’s a finality in the click of the stone turning back to normal, unmagical rock, like there is every time. The cold moss glistens with dew - a frequent but unexplained and uncontrollable side effect of magic is the temperature often changes. 

Kiyoko sent her a text while she was in lecture, a picture of the grocery list on the fridge. Eggs, rice, bonito flakes. . . she scans it. Nothing that can’t be found in the small grocery store on her way back home.

Her bike’s frame has a misting of water on it from the humidity but nothing else. She slings her bag into the basket, too lazy to strap it on the dmap rack, and pedals off with both wheels on the ground. The thicket will be full of water droplets, sure to soak her socks and shoes, and she doesn’t feel like shoving her way through soaked underbrush to save a few minutes. Besides, there’s no place near the store for her to reappear without someone seeing her.

The city feels more carefree after the storm, now that the worst is over. Schoolchildren linger on the sidewalks, talking with their friends. Grade schoolers run through puddles, soaking their shoes in gritty rainwater, while cars plow through the oil- slicked streets. An old man in overalls reaches up to clip soaked tree branches and sends droplets cascading over a group of housewives with matching plastic bags.

She rides three more blocks, down to where the offices end and the houses begin, before the crowded sidewalks and busy street forces her to abandon riding and push her bike. The cloudy sky swirls above her, but the crowd doesn’t seem to mind.

There’s a poster advertising boba ice cream in the door of the supermarket, just next to the one with a cartoon anpan. The bell rings when she pushes the door open, a wave of aircon flowing into the street. Another student she vaguely recognises gives her a nod, stepping out to the bus stop at the corner.

She manages to get everything on the list and a couple of pork buns for herself for less than ¥5000, an accomplishment on par with her mastering the art of keeping her bike steady in midair without falling, given her budget. The shop has steady business, increasing even, but magic folk are always hard to come by even in a big city. And the occasional psychic or magic-attuned mortal will wander in and think it’s a niche holistic medicine or herbal remedy place. They do keep a few of the proven-effective medicinal herbs - like ginseng, licorice, and goji berry - in stock, for magic and mortal customers alike, but there’s no such thing as homeopathy or essential oils curing all illnesses.

.

Golden hour is full swing when she steps out of the grocery store with a carton of eggs and some fish and vegetables, and the cloud cover has finally burned away to let ribbons of fading sunlight cover everything on the much emptier streets in translucent gold leaf. She wheels her bike to a shallow alleyway, turns on the invisibility charm when she’s sure no one’s looking, and pedals off into the brilliant sky, royal blue stained with sunset like a king’s robe. The heat has lessened a bit, and there’s a nice cool breeze, so it’s quite a pleasant evening.

By the time she gets back to the shop and locks her bike in the shed, most of the sunlight is gone and the cool night promises to be clear, perfect for gathering moonlight. She can smell rice and curry from downstairs - yep, she’s almost late for dinner.

Before she climbs down, she checks on the plants in the boxes. Already they look better, perkier, than before. She shakes the excess water off the leaves to prevent rotting and spots, refreshes the citronella-scented anti-mosquito salt, and fills up the small birdfeeder in the corner with fresh seeds.

The shop opens at six sharp, closes at midnight, and most of the time Yachi’s got time to spare before opening. She either double checks their inventory, mainly of potions, or fixes the glamor cast on the building that makes it look like a rundown pharmacy - squeaky door, flickering lights, and grime collecting on the windows. Not very many mortals come in, especially when there's a brightly lit department store two or three blocks down the street, just past the little mom and pop bakery that bakes chocolate croissants fresh every morning.

Today, she had just enough time to scarf down dinner, which is the curry she smelled earlier, take a shower, and change into her work uniform. It’s all black except for the soft brown boots - the tights, the dress with twin rows of brass buttons up the front, the little capelet around the shoulders. She gives her hair a quick brush and rushes downstairs to help with the first customer.

“Welcome to the Crow’s Corner!” She says, hastily taking her place behind the old, huge book with parchment pages that they keep the inventory in. It’s got the products they sell, the prices, and the dose or usage, all listed alphabetically and by subject in the index. She looks up at the customer, and up and up and up until she sees how tall he is.

“Oh.” She says, very quietly. 

He’s tall - almost touching the ceiling with the top of his head - and broad with short white hair and thin dusty eyebrows that frown at her. A plain brown leather bag crosses his torso diagonally, together cream and green giving him an altogether woodsy palette. “Hello,” she squeaks.

He inclines his head and points to the piece of paper with names stamped on it. “A- are you here for Fukutachi-san?” She says. He nods and hands her an envelope with a dark green seal. A shield is stamped in the wax, the symbol of the Dateko coven.

“I’ll handle this one, Yachi,” Kiyoko says, gliding in. She smiles. “Kageyama said you’d show them how to make witchwater, you should go get set up for that.”

She bobs her head and trots through the empty doorway to the back room to set up the distilling apparatus. It’s very simple: in a sealed glass box, a shallow bowl is set over a single candle attached to a tube, which is insulated by cold water, that drips into a separate container, located outside the box. There’s pitchers of liquid moonlight in the chilled section of the pantry, the liquid undulating with ripples that echo rainbow colors even when she’s sure it should be still. It has to be kept chilled, it’ll dissolve into thin air at room temperature. She fills a basin with ice and takes a small sample.

A loud thump startles her. “What was that?” Kiyoko calls. The faint silvery outlines of the defensive wards that line almost all magical places glow along the windowsills and doorway, curling over themselves, tracing a rippling path to the disturbance. 

“Hey!” Saeko opens the back door. “I, uh, need a fixing spell.”

Kiyoko sighs. “For what?” She asks, already reaching for the paper and ink. The tall customer from before gingerly fishes around in his satchel before pulling out a circular piece of wood.

“Woah, that’s a good one,” Saeko says, stumping over and taking it from him. “I guess someone as big as you would break a lot of stuff, huh?” He winces and hands her the mending charm.

“Saeko, go wash up.” Kiyoko picks the charm up and walks to look out the door. “This isn’t as bad as last time, but, really. Please don’t crash-”

Saeko laughs and tosses an arm around Kiyoko. “The helmet you charmed for me worked like, well, a charm.” She snickers. “Don’t worry so much.” She blows a kiss and saunters upstairs. “Ow! Stubbed my toe!”

Yachi loiters in the shadows near the back room, watching Kiyoko trace her fingers around and around the edge of the charm. She mutters something and tendrils of magic float up, forming a ball of smoky lavender colored magic above the charm, before breaking away and flying to repair the damage. 

“Thank you, Aone,” She says. “Good to see it’s working like it should.” He nods seriously, takes the wrapped package on the counter, and reaches for the doorknob.

“Oh-” Hinata, just inside the threshold, nearly bumps into Aone. He hops into a pseudo-kung fu stance, pursing his lips in a frown, then realizes who he faces. Yachi has enough time to think, please don’t start fighting, before she realizes they’re both bowing to each other. Hinata steps into the shop with a suspicious Kageyama trailing behind. The black-haired witch makes eye contact with her and points at Hinata as if to say, what was that?

She makes a vaguely confused sort of noise and shrugs. Hinata bounces toward her. “Yachi!”

“Goob- Good! Mor- Evening!” She squeaks, immensely relieved at the lack of fighting. “How are you?”

Four minutes later, Hinata presses his hands and nose against the glass wall of the distiller. His breath melts the delicate layer of frost. “Woah,” He exhales. “It’s bubbling, lookit Kageyama!”

“I can see,” Kageyama grunts. “Don’t mess anything up.”

“It’s boiling,” She says, pointing. “Moonlight boils at a really low temperature, so that candle supplies enough heat.”

“Doesn’t Kageyama buy that kind too?” Hinata turns his head, as if the change in angle will suddenly make things clear to him. “It looks familiar, like, the markings on the side.”

“It’s pretty common,” Kiyoko says, maneuvering around the table and reaching up on a shelf. She smiles at Yachi. “Yachi made that batch,” She says, indicating to the flame with her chin.

“Oh, I, I didn’t really. . .” She sputters, unused to the recognition. “I just followed the recipe! And we had all the ingredients - the wax and such - here, so I didn’t really-”

“That’s so cool, Yacchan!” Hinata grins at her. “You’re gonna be running your own shop soon!” He beams again and goes back to staring intently at the flame.

She bursts into a blush, waving her hands. “Not really, I’ve still got a whole lot to learn, I don’t-”

Kiyoko smile-laughs and shuts the door behind her. “We could always use another one of us,” she says, indicating to the shop. Yachi’s cheeks flame again. “Come help me close up? It’s been slow tonight and we have something else to do.” Kiyoko winks, barely perceptible behind her glasses. Yachi inhales, stomach twisting in nervous excitement when she remembers what they have planned.

She glances at the clock - not even two yet. Kageyama has become so stiff it would be impossible to deny their plan if Hinata had not glued himself to the glass and fixated on the dripping water so intently.

After locking the door, wiping down the counter, and doing a quick tidying of the many shelves and crannies around the area, she pulls the freezer open and moves aside two bags of ice, a cube of something blue wrapped in plastic wrap, and a package of frozen dumplings to get at the bottle wedged between them. It’s perfectly untouched except for a thin layer of frost on the outside, blurring the viscous liquid contents, and the bare spots where her gloved hands touch the subzero glass and melted the frozen condensation.

“Ready?” Kiyoko asks her, jingling the keys to the roof in hand. She nods, cold seeping into her fingertips already. 

Kageyama pulls his familiar away from the cage, twists his fingers and spells the dripping moonwater to a stop with a hasy time pause. The distinct saltwater tang of his magic breaks Hinata from his trance, perking up in curiosity of what she holds. She pretends not to notice his glances and not-so-subtle peeks around her fingers in favor of focusing on not dropping the bottle.

The sheen of rainwater has faded from a smothering fog to a refreshing humidity in the cooling air. Kiyoko hands Yachi the keys and takes the freezing bottle, indicating for her to open the door. The day has long since cooled, a faint chill lingering on the breeze despite the sweltering heat. Fluorescent signs and neon letters light up the night, beaming light up to the blackened sky like smoke wafting off burning incense.

“Yachi, will you do the honors?” She jumps at her name, then hastily accepts the match, wiping her hands on her skirt and hoping that neither of them notice her sweaty palms, even though she has gloves on and no one can see. Hinata buzzes with questions that Kageyama brushes off with no explanation and Kiyoko answers only with small smiles and a mysterious expression.

She drops the match. It flickers on the ground in the spilled potion, glowing for an instant and throwing the entire rooftop in aquamarine light, before snuffing out in a thread of smoke. The smell of pine and forest earth wells up, and the lights of the city flicker hot pink and electric blue for a moment before winking out. One by one, noises quiet. The honking of cars, the clackety racket of the train, the quiet and steady hum of air condition units, the hiss of oil and steam in restaurants - all of it dies down until the only thing left is silence and a ringing in their ears.

“What happened?” She can hear the beating of Hinata’s wings near her ear, his bird form a fuzzy outline almost blending into the darkness. He chirps twice, his voice an octave higher than normal. “It’s dark!”

“No shit, dumbass,” Kageyama grunts without his usual bite. “Shh.” He points up. They all follow his hand, illuminated in the blue-gray light of the moon.

The sky opens up for them, revealing the vast expanse of stars above. Half-dried puddles gain a breath of new life with the barest trace of light on their surface, living mirrors of the unexplored emptiness, the mysterious vacuum that surrounds and dwarfs them, a staggering display of fact that evokes feelings of awe and humility in the audience.

They stand in silence, craning up, trying to see between the stars where nothing lies, trying to decipher the nothingness and make words out of what isn’t there.

“Happy birthday.” Kageyama’s reverent murmur breaks the silence.

“What?” Hinata stills. “Me?”

“Of course you, who else?”

“Happy birthday, Hinata,” Kiyoko says from behind them. “Don’t worry about the lights. It’s just us who see it this way.”

“Happy birthday from all of us,” She says. “June twenty-second, right?”

“Yeah.” Hianta says at a decibel level far lower than average. “Magic is just, so amazing.”

She knows what he means - the feeling of fullness, a deep satisfaction of witnessing the impossible come true by your own hand, your own making, hours and years of work culminating in something ephemeral and breathtaking. Here one moment and gone the next, leaving only an aftertaste and the hunger for more behind, so brief and fleeting but leaving an indelible imprint.

The scent of earth fades into the evening breeze and the din and glitter of urban life resumes. Reluctant to break the spell, they slowly meander down the stairs and slip back to reality, each holding an echo of the brief moments when they were the only ones in the world.


End file.
